


Tangled Up In Blue

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:51:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spades Slick isn't really Spades Slick when he's around Problem Sleuth, but the revelations he's having about it are still his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangled Up In Blue

You're tangled up together, four legs in blankets twisted out of shape by the two of you wrestling your way across the bed. You're suspended above him at the moment, but it'll change in a minute and then change back, the fluid give-and-take like demonstrating a wrestling move on a willing victim. It's past ten and out the window, the city is springing to life. It's a world of black, white, yellow, red, and you're not out in it. Instead you're here.

Here you're not king of Midnight City and leader of the Midnight Crew. Here you don't run a lucrative set of clubs or plan far more lucrative heists on anyone with the skill to get rich in your city. Here you don't play piano (though when you do, you're the best). Here, you aren't even Spades Slick. You're just this guy, a collection of good and bad feelings piled together in no particular order. You don't think about what Droog'll think or what'll be run in the paper or what it was like last time Snowman slammed you into a wall. You just are, and you do what you want, and you actually do think about consequences, but they're all short term and based entirely around your partner here and the sound he's going to make when you do this, or maybe this...

You look down at him for a second first, though, and you get caught. His eyes aren't green in the half-lit greyscale of his room, but they're soft and expectant and waiting for you. You don't know why he's so absurdly patient with you. You get distracted easy, caught in whatever's closest and quickest and most likely to yield immediate results; he waits beside you for you to remember what you were doing before, or to remind you of it. Now, when you stare puzzledly into his face, he waits and smiles fondly and you know he's thinking, "there he goes again". There you go.

You shake it off, the brief impression of perfection, because this sort of thing can't last anyhow, so you might as well break it while it's good. That's what you do- you break things. Except here, you guess, here where you don't hurt him in any serious manner and you let him on top of you and you don't really struggle. It's a complete mystery to you, the way you've stripped out of yourself and left him piled like your jacket, shirt, and undershirt on the floor. You're not you here, or maybe this is you, and you're not you everywhere else. You just know you inexplicably like it here, in the silence punctuated only by your voices and the sound of skin touching skin. It's not the other you, no. But it's yours all the same.

He raises a hand, runs it through your hair once and stands it on end, then touches it gently to your face. It dwells there on your cheek and his smile crooks again in the half-light. "Do you-" he starts to say, but you suddenly don't know if you can stand to hear whatever it is he's going to say in that moment of perfect stillness. You dart down and kiss him, deep and completely given to it, and he responds without trying to finish his sentence.

You know what he was going to say anyhow, or the basic idea of it. _Do you ever wonder,_ he wants to say, _what things would be like..._

Of course you do. But life isn't wondering and daydreams don't get you by. So you've tended to tell your idle fantasies to shut it and gone on with business. You still dream, though, distracted by momentary perfection and greyscale green eyes.

And it hits you, out of nowhere, with his mouth on yours and his hands dwelling on your body: you love him. You love him. You've never loved a person in your life, and you hadn't planned on making him the first but you seem to have gone ahead and done so nonetheless. "Oh shit," you say, and instantly he's curious, worried, peering up at you and giving you that look that means _spill it, Slick_. And, too surprised by the revelation not to, you do.

"Oh," he says. "Well. I guess that's alright then."

It's another couple minutes later before you wrangle the same words out of him, but you get them in the end. In the end, it doesn't matter what else lies outside of this room when you're in it. The only thing that matters is that you're both here.

Everything else will fall into place. Here, you're not Spades Slick, but you still know it will.


End file.
